


Poets, New and Old

by maglor_still_lives, Mavariel



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, I hope it's as fun to read as it was to write, basically 100 percent banter if i'm being honest, post silmarillion maglor, prodigious quantities of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mavariel/pseuds/Mavariel
Summary: A hobbit meets an unexpected Elf... a collaboration with Mavariel for the TRSB 2020!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Poets, New and Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mavariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mavariel/gifts).



> The lovely artwork this was based off of: https://mavariel.tumblr.com/post/627642070692233216/my-second-trsb-piece-a-meeting-of-maglor-and

He hummed a walking song, following a well-worn path through the lands near the outside of the Shire. Unable to think of anything else to do, he’d set off on a long trek that morning, and it was off to a promising start. Fields and forests rolled by as he bustled along, swinging his walking stick in time with his steps. 

All morning and most of the afternoon, he wandered purposefully down the roads and trails of the West Farthing, stopping only for a meal (or two) when he felt peckish. _Wandered purposefully?_ he wondered. It seemed a contradiction of sorts, but regardless, it was indeed what he was doing. He had no particular destination, but he intended to get there as briskly as possible.

He hummed and walked and walked and hummed—and a bramble snagged his leg. He extricated himself with a scowl. The path seemed narrower now than it had before, and less well maintained; the trees were darker and thicker too, and they loomed above him with twisted menace. 

He felt small, suddenly, and realized he was alone for miles. _It’s just a forest,_ he reminded himself, _it can’t hurt you._ There was nothing in the Shire, as far as he knew, that would harm him deliberately. Well—he couldn’t rule out those accursed cousins of his, but they weren’t likely to ambush him in the woods. 

He stopped and turned back to check the road behind him, fingering his walking-stick. He remembered the stories of when the wolves had crossed the river into the Shire, before he was born; maybe they’d acquired a taste for hobbit flesh. He imagined their rank breath, their glowing eyes, their dark and patchy fur looming above him--

 _Crack!_ Some ancient and deep-buried hobbit instinct took over Bilbo’s body, sending him diving into the bushes faster than he could realize what he was doing. His heart pounded in his ears, and he trembled all over with fright. 

Why? It was just a noise, like a squirrel jumping through the leaves or a bird landing in a bush or—he suddenly saw it—a leather boot, standing on a broken twig. His stomach twisted into hideous knots. 

Bilbo huddled there, careful not to rustle any leaves, waiting for the predator to appear. But instead of a knife, a voice drifted across the path.

“I can see you, you know,” it said easily and with a hint of amusement. “Hobbit, brown hair, yellow waistcoat, trembling like a leaf? You can come out, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Bilbo didn’t move. His gaze followed the leg upward until he could see the face that spoke to him. It was a long face, scarred and sad, but noble and beautiful. He was without question one of the Big Folk—the biggest that Bilbo had ever seen.

“I mean it. I won’t do anything to you. I’m just here as a visitor.” The thing turned its head and looked down the path. “I’ll leave now.”

When he moved, a pointed ear poked through his dark hair. Bilbo gasped. “You--you’re an elf!” He clapped his hand over his mouth; where had the words come from? Of all the times to blurt out his mind!

The elf looked back at him. “Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s—impossible!”

“Not impossible,” the stranger said. “We elves are very real.”

Bilbo found his fear easing, and his suspicion growing. He squinted at the stranger, “Maybe you’re real, but what’re you doing here? Big Folk don’t come into the Shire.”

“I am merely passing through.” 

“Sure you are. Snooping around, more like! We don’t want any business with elves sniffing around our parts, or Big Folk, or” --he startled-- “men with swords!”

“The sword is not for hobbits. Don’t worry.”

Bilbo was fast succumbing to the heady, Tookish mix of indignation and curiosity that foreshadows many of hobbitkind’s more reckless actions. “Then why are you carrying one?”

“There are worse things in this world than meddling relations, master hobbit” the elf said with an odd smile. “Pray you never meet them.”

“Such as?”

“Such as! Wolves, goblins, orcs, balrogs, dragons, whatever the presence in the East is, I have no doubt it’ll become clear soon... but do you really want to know? I thought hobbits preferred not to think about such things.”

Bilbo hesitated. On one hand, he _did_ want to know. On the other, he wanted to run back to Bag End as fast as his legs could carry him, draw up a hot bath, and forget about all this. “I just want to know why an elf with a sword has any business with the Shire-folk,” he declared, thinking this response was an acceptable balance between the two.

“As I said, just passing through.” The elf looked down the path. “Rain’s coming. You’d best get home.”

 _How rude!_ “You never introduced yourself, Master Elf.”

The elf laughed aloud. “My name’s Maglor. And if you chance to see any other elves, you should mention that you know me.”  
“Why?”  
“Because they will never believe you. And if they do, you’ll never see an elf look so surprised. What’s your name?”

“Bilbo Baggins. Of Bag End.”

Maglor bowed with tremendous flair. “Well met, Master Baggins. I hope our paths will cross again ere long.”

“Goodbye,” Bilbo said, and set off home.

\------------------

Bilbo wandered through the halls of Imladris, stalking around corners and sniffing the air. There was one thing he hunted, and he was having surprising trouble finding it. _How could anyone call this a homely house if it didn’t have any ale?_

The corridors were lit with eerie torches that flickered an unnaturally pale shade of orange. Elf-magic was useless, though, if they didn’t have any ale. At this point, he’d settle for a decent cider. Anything but the heady elf-wines and hard liquors that were all that the house of Elrond seemed to serve.

Voices were murmuring behind one of the doors in the corridor. He figured he had to ask somebody, so he knocked. 

“Yes?” came the reply. 

He reached up—elf door-handles were as tall as a hobbit—and cracked the door open. Two elves were seated in the darkened room, looking like they were engaged in a heated argument. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wondering where I could find some— _Maglor??_ ”

“Master Baggins,” the elf said coolly. “I’m sorry I didn’t come see you earlier.”

Bilbo recovered his dignity, but the other elf—Elrond himself, Bilbo realized with a start—did not. He gawked at the pair of them, his jaw hanging open.

Maglor looked at him with amusement. “Are you all right?”

Elrond gathered himself. “You two… _know_ each other?”

“We met some years ago, my lord,” Bilbo explained hastily. “He frightened me in the woods. Maglor told me to tell other elves I knew him; now I think I see why.”

Elrond rubbed his face. “I—you—destiny’s got a sense of humor, doesn’t he?”

“I’d say.” Maglor looked back at Bilbo. “What were you looking for?”

“Ale.”

“I know where to get that. We were done here anyway.” Elrond nodded, still looking a bit awed, and Maglor stood. Bilbo had forgotten how tall he was; looking at his face was like trying to see the crown of a tree. “Follow me. Have you been to the Hall of Fire yet?”

“No.” Bilbo hurried along, taking three strides for each of Maglor’s. “I haven’t done much exploring at all until tonight. The dwarves are trying to stay away. They don’t trust you.”

“That’s warranted.” Maglor took a left turn. “It’s a very old grievance, but it’s warranted.”

“How old?” Bilbo asked. “I’m still holding a grudge against my inlaws for when their great-great grandmother snubbed my great-grandfather at her eighty-ninth birthday party. I think that’s warranted.”

Maglor looked like he was holding in a chuckle. “I don’t know enough about hobbits to disagree. The rift between dwarves and elves goes back five thousand years, when the Sun was young and the great kings still ruled in Middle-Earth.”

Bilbo was panting a little by now. Who knew there were so many twists and turns in Imladris? “What caused the split?”

“Greed. We’re there.”

The sounds of merriment had been getting stronger for some minutes, and Bilbo suddenly found himself in the doorway of the most expansive, warmest, most joyful, most _beautiful_ place he'd ever been. He hesitated for a moment--the hall was vast and filled with people, talking and laughing and… drinking! Yes! Was that ale?

“I’ll show you the bar.” Maglor swept away, glancing back occasionally to make sure Bilbo wasn’t lost.

They filled their mugs and as they went towards some empty seats, the hall burst out into applause. Bilbo froze in surprise, feeling very exposed and wondering if the people were mocking him--but he soon saw a golden-haired elf taking his place behind the harp in one corner of the room.

The conversation quieted to almost total silence, and Bilbo hastened to sit and watched with rapt attention as the elf checked the tuning and started to play.

He started singing too; it was a song in elvish, clear and sweet. And though the words were foreign, he saw in his mind’s eye snatches of scenes: a maiden dancing among flowers, a vaulting castle, snorting horses and sparkling rivers. They were vague and vanished as soon as he focused on them, like a dream upon waking.

Maglor had settled in a nearby chair and was staring a bit skeptically at the musician. Occasionally his lips would twitch like he was talking to himself.

The song ended and Bilbo realized he’d been holding his breath. He inhaled, trying to grasp at the images as they began to leave his mind. He looked at Maglor; the elf did not seem overawed. A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd.

“Didn’t you like it?” he gasped. “It was incredible.”

Maglor made a noncommittal noise. “I would love to give him some pointers, but he won’t let me.”

“...you think you could do better?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to see it,” Bilbo scoffed. “You speak Elvish. What was that song about?”

“A maiden whom the artist loved once. Some nobleman’s daughter, but she sailed West and he didn’t follow.”

“So that _was_ what I was seeing!”

“Yes, most likely. What was it you saw?”

“Maidens and rivers and castles.”

“Faces?”  
“No… no faces.”

“No faces,” Maglor proclaimed, looking a little smug.

“You really think you could do better?”

“I _have_. And so could he, if he’d stop spitting in my face and let me help him.”

“Oh, well, I beg your pardon then.” Bilbo paused and dropped his sarcasm. “Spitting in a literal sense, or--”

“Figurative. Though I would not be surprised if he did both.”

“Ah.” Bilbo found himself amused by the idea of lofty elves partaking in such base behaviors. “Why?”

Maglor waved it away. “Old grievances. How have you been finding Imladris?”

“It’s nice. The ale is good. The people are… strange. I find that I don’t understand the elves.”

“Well, few do. It’s best not to lose sleep over it. You’re excited for the quest, I take it?”

“I’ve come to terms with the fact that I may simply be an unusual hobbit. I cannot wait to set eyes on the Lonely Mountain.”

“Be careful. It is dangerous out there.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, “trust me, I know. Thorin has spent the entire journey regaling us with tales of the foes he’s faced in the wide world.” He laughed. “And I’ve faced down plenty of trolls in my day.”

Maglor laughed too, but with more contempt than humor. “Trolls? There are worse things than trolls beyond the mountains.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Yes,” Maglor said, “and I mean it. You have never seen a dragon, have you?”

“I’ve heard all the stories.” Bilbo took a large sip of his ale. “I’m small and quiet. I can avoid him.”

“Stories are not the same. Master Baggins, I have seen people burned alive by dragonfire. I don’t know if you have heard the sound a creature makes when the flames suck the air from their lungs and rend the living flesh from their bones, but it is not easily forgotten.”

“Well,” Bilbo said, “once I hear it, I’m sure I’ll remember.”

Maglor sighed and gulped some wine. “How is Thorin?”

“Fine. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Because he is well bred and well educated. If anyone were to recognize me, it would be him. I don’t want to ruin his trust with Elrond.”

Bilbo’s perplexity was quickly turning to curiosity. “Why would it? Ruin their trust, I mean.”

“As I said, the feud runs deep. The split wasn't my fault, but I certainly never helped. And--on that subject, beware the gold-sickness.”

“The what?” Bilbo half-wished he’d brought a journal to write down the strange things Maglor was saying. Was he implying that he’d been present at the beginning of the rift, five thousand years ago? But Maglor pressed on.

“The greed of the wealthy. Smaug suffers it, the dwarves of yore suffered it, and Thorin may yet. Keep a close eye on him.”

“I will,” Bilbo said. “If he doesn’t get--what did you say? The living flesh rent from his bones?” He chuckled. “The dwarves say the dragon might be dead already.”

Maglor shook his head. “If he were dead, everyone for twenty miles would have smelled his corpse. The mountain would have been picked clean by goblins. I know that the way in is shut, but they would dig and blast underneath until they could carry the entire hoard away. Word would have reached Thorin if he had done even the smallest reconnaissance beforehand.”

“Of course he did! So you say the dragon is alive. We’ll work our way around him.” Bilbo’s words were beginning to slur. “When will they play another song?”

Maglor shrugged.

“You said _you_ sing.”

“Oh. No.”

“You did! You said you were better than that fellow. You said you’d make me see faces.”

Maglor scratched at his forehead, sighing. “You’re drunk.”

“C’mon! Make me see faces!”

“Quiet!” the elf admonished. “You’re making a scene.”

Bilbo made no effort to modulate his volume. “Faces!”

Maglor got to his feet laboriously. “I should have looked up how much ale is safe for a hobbit. Valar almighty, I might have poisoned you.”  
The amicable chatter of the room fell to deathly silence as he approached the fire. Maglor faced the crowd for a moment with a resigned and apologetic look. “This is for the halfling. He wants to see faces.”

Bilbo raised his mug crookedly as Maglor took a seat behind the harp. He leaned close to the instrument and softly plucked a few strings to check the tune, then threw his head back and all at once struck a dissonant chord.

When the note was half-faded his voice rang out, clear and hard-edged. His words were fast and his tone was violent, and the harp continued apace, syncopated and harsh. Bilbo could barely pick the syllables apart, but the elvish felt different than the song he’d heard earlier. Older, maybe, and more powerful.

Almost immediately, the visions found him: dark clouds billowing, stars twinkling distantly in the vaulting sky, silver swords and steely eyes flashing against the black. Where the other elf’s song had made the images float in Bilbo’s mind, these appeared in front of his eyes. Wisps of smoke rose around glowing jewels while the hand that grasped them blackened and deformed, the flesh dripping like wax and the nails curling like paper in a fireplace. Blood gushed onto streets of white marble as the shadows of banners danced on the polished walls.. A horned demon screamed, fire bursting from its maw; a lonely pyre went up in flames, while still the distant stars spun overhead.

And then--the faces. Terrible, hollow-cheeked, wrathful, with eyes that reflected the flames of the pyre and mouths that mourned and scorned it in equal measure. Faces like Maglor’s, gaunt and haughty, proud and willful. Fey and fell they were, and every line and shadow spoke to their iron will and pitiless rage.

And then, on a coda, the song stopped. The harp’s last, foulest chord faded to silence and the visions dispersed from Bilbo’s eyes.

Maglor stood and made a small bow. “Thank you.”

No one applauded as he returned to his seat. Bilbo’s jaw hung open.

“You happy?” he asked. He smoothed his tunic and took a large sip of wine. “I hope so. I may have just spent the very last of my goodwill--and for what? To prove myself to a drunken halfling?”

Bilbo’s jaw flopped around like a fool. He tried to take another gulp of ale and found that his tankard was empty. “Consider yourself proven.”

“I have lived three and a half ages on this earth,” Maglor muttered. “I don’t need to consider myself anything.” He gulped the last of the wine. “Bedtime for you.”

“What?”  
“Back to the dwarves. Sleep it off.”

“Why?”  
“You’re drunk. You should go. So should I.”

Bilbo dug in his heels. “Why?”

“Because, as I said, my goodwill is thin. Best not to test my luck.”

“Who were those people you sang about?”

“Assholes.” Maglor hauled Bilbo to his feet without any apparent effort and guided him as he stumbled towards the door.

“Why did they look like you?”

“I have an unfortunate heritage.” Maglor shoved the hobbit unceremoniously into the hallway.

“So you’re related to them?”

“ _Bed._ ”

That was the last thing Bilbo remembered. When he awoke, the night seemed more like an odd dream; and for some reason, he thought it best not to mention it to the dwarves.

\-----------------

It was a much more somber company that returned to Rivendell. Maglor was relieved beyond measure to see the hobbit’s face still among them; he realized he was even glad to see the weatherbeaten maia who called himself Gandalf. The remaining dwarves accepted Elrond’s hospitality with relief; they were victorious, but it had cost them. They were tired and glad for the food and rest he gave so freely.

Maglor met them at the door, along with Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel, and a few others of the lord’s retinue. The elves looked at him askance; the dwarves didn’t seem to register him at any more than the others. 

The dwarves kept their head high (by their standards; they barely reached the elves’ waist) as they entered. The leader bowed deeply before Elrond. “We bring gold and gems from the Lonely Mountain in payment for your hospitality.” His eyes flashed toward Maglor; so maybe the dwarves weren’t ignorant of him after all.

Elrond returned the bow. “I accept your generosity and welcome your company to my home for as long as you care to remain.” He ushered them inside.

Maglor fell in alongside Bilbo. “Good to see you here alive,” he murmured.

“Good to be here alive.” Bilbo craned his neck to look at Maglor. “I’m famished.”

Maglor smiled. “We can fix that. Be patient.” But his expression seemed forced.

“What’s the matter?” Bilbo asked.

“I feel… strange. _You_ feel strange.” The elf’s brows were knitted. “I don’t know what it is.”

“Well, I’m the same hobbit you saw before. A little braver maybe--and richer for sure--but still the same person.”

“No.” Maglor released a strained laugh. “That’s not what I mean.” He shook his head. “I feel sick. Maybe food will settle it.”

The feast was hearty; good dwarven meats and strong beer. It passed mostly in silence; the dwarves had lost a lot of their lightheartedness with their leader. Bilbo watched Gandalf flick glances at Maglor, who kept his gaze focused studiously on his plate as he picked at the meat and potatoes.

The wizard’s face was hard to read beneath his beard and bushy brows. Eventually, from curiosity or the sheer force of the wizard’s gaze, Maglor looked up.

His gray eyes met Gandalf’s black ones and some sort of conflict passed between them. After a few seconds, they broke away, and both resumed eating in silence. Bilbo looked between them, trying to understand what had passed.

Too soon, the meal was over. Gandalf ushered Bilbo away, back toward the guest lodgings. Bilbo pulled away and ran to Maglor. “Will you join us on the way home?”

“No,” Maglor said. “I need to take my shift with the rangers before then. I’m leaving at first light tomorrow.”

Bilbo’s face fell. “I have so many questions for you!”

“I’ll be nearby,” Maglor said. “I’ll visit sometime.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, “you will. And I’ll get you good and drunk on hobbit ale.”

“I look forward to it.” Maglor knelt and held Bilbo’s shoulder; the hobbit returned the gesture. “Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

Bilbo left dejectedly, and Gandalf looked at him with concern. “You know that elf?”

“We’re friends,” he said. “He’s a ranger near the Shire.”

“Yes, that’s how you met. Is that how you know him still?”  
“What else is there to know?” Bilbo asked. “Wizards! You folk never say what you mean.”

Gandalf frowned for a moment, then chuckled in that deep, knowing way of his. “I suppose it’s harmless enough. I’ll let him tell you. But--before I go--do be careful around him.” Bilbo stopped at the door to his guest-room; as Gandalf walked away, Bilbo could have sworn he heard him mutter _“hobbits!”_

\----------------

It was midmorning, some months later, when Bilbo heard a knock at his door. He ducked beneath the window and peeped up; he did not want to entertain any fourth cousins or great-aunts or uppity milkmen abusing his hospitality to get a good look at the dragon-gold he was supposedly hoarding.

But fourth cousins were not what he saw. Instead, a tall figure clad in brown darkened his doorstep, with the reins of a spotted horse in his hand.

He sprang up and unlatched the door. “Maglor!”

“Bilbo,” the elf said warmly. “You promised me some ale.”

“I did, I did! Come in!” He gestured expansively into Bag End.

Maglor lifted the reins and raised his eyebrows. “Can she?”

“Oh--sorry. You can leave her right there, I think there’s still a hitching-post by the door.

Maglor made an affirmative noise, tied the reins to the post, and ruffled the horse’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Bilbo hesitated in the hall. “How do you find Hobbiton?”

“I have been given some very dirty looks in my life,” Maglor said, “But none so withering as your neighbors. You should feel honored.”

He followed Bilbo inside, stooping beneath the hobbit-height rafters. For all the time he’d spent guarding the Shire, this was the first time he’d ever been inside a hobbit-hole. It was a cozy place, tastefully decorated, and, to be completely honest, cluttered.

“Sorry about the mess,” Bilbo said, rapidly shifting papers off the dining table. Maglor peered at them, and at the stacks of books that lined the walls; he spotted maps of Rhûn and Eriador and texts in Cirth and Tengwar.

“I see you’ve been doing some reading,” he remarked.

“Yes, I figured that now that I’m officially an oddball, I may as well not avoid it. The trips to Rivendell and the Lonely Mountain gave me a curiosity I didn’t know was possible before. And that reminds me!” He darted across the room to grab a well-worn journal. “I have questions for you. Things I forgot to ask at our last meeting”

Maglor laughed, a bit uncertainly. “Ale first.”

“Fine, fine, ale first, but I want you sober for the questions.” He busied himself in the kitchen. “Do elves even get drunk?”

“Oh, certainly,” Maglor said. “Although I’ve never tried hobbit ale.”

“Well, have a seat and try it,” Bilbo said. Maglor sat down and squeezed his knees beneath the low table. Bilbo set two huge mugs down and dipped his quill in an inkwell that he’d neglected to clear away. “Number one: who _are_ you?”

Maglor was silent for a moment, then chose his words with care. “I am… a friend of Elrond’s.”

“Yes, I can very well see _that_ ,” Bilbo said. “But where are you from, how did you get here, what’s that big blasted scar on your face?”

Again, Maglor paused. “The Elder Days. I led troops into battle, and, well--as you see.”

“ _Elder days,_ ” Bilbo muttered as he scribbled. “You said--or I seem to recall you saying--that the people you sang about were your relatives. Well, it didn’t take me much research to know that the man with the jewels in your song was Fëanor. Were you saying that you were related to _him_?”

“That would be the implication, yes.”

“Related how?”

Maglor sighed. “Fine, you’ve found me out. I’m his son, and I fought alongside him and afterward, until the end of our people when the continent drowned and the Dark Lord was vanquished once more.”

Bilbo squinted suspiciously. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

Maglor shrugged. “What else did you want to know?”

Bilbo abandoned that line of questioning and took a sip of his ale. “How’d you learn to do that with the singing? The visions?”

“Practice, but mostly it’s elf-magic.”

“What language was it?”

“Quenya.”

“Where’d you learn it?”  
“As a child.”

“Who wrote the song?”

“I did.”

“Was it about Feanor?”

“Obviously.”

“Did you know him?”

Maglor took a huge gulp of ale. “I just _told_ you.”

Bilbo was scribbling so fast his hand almost looked blurred. “You were serious? You’re his son?”

Maglor laughed incredulously. “You didn’t guess?”

“Well,” said the hobbit, taking a swig, “I wasn’t certain. I figured there must be other Maglors. There have been Bilbos before me, dozens of them. Hundreds, probably. It seemed wrong to jump to conclusions. And I don’t mean to offend, but Maglor doesn’t get mentioned much in the books I found. And it’s not like they ever bother to describe him. You, I mean.”

“That’s fair; I’m not as famous as my father. But Elves aren’t the same as hobbits. Our names--our Sindarin names, at least--seldom recur.” Maglor tried to lean back comfortably, and found the hobbit chair too small. “Glorfindel, in Rivendell? He’s the same one as fought for Gondolin in the Elder Days.”

“Really,” Bibo said, still absorbed in his notes. “So you did the whole--” he waved his hand “--kinslaying thing?”

“Yes,” Maglor said.

“Is that where the scar’s from?”

“No. An orc did that.”

“Orcs are real?”

“Orcs are--” Maglor guffawed. “ _Orcs are real?_ You believe in _Fëanor_ from--I don’t know, what was it--six _thousand_ years ago, but you’re not sure about _orcs?_ ”

Bilbo gestured to the stacks of research around him. “I’m new to this! I haven’t even read half of these yet!”

“Fine, fine. I’ll save you some reading. Orcs are real. Fëanor was real too, and so am I.”

“Right. Thanks.” Bilbo looked up from his book. “You look flushed.”

“Mmh. Your ale is stronger than it ought to be.”

“Ought to be?”

“Given your size, hobbits should--” Maglor cut himself off and stood. “I left my horse out there, didn’t I?’

“Yes, I think so.”

“Shit. I’ll go get her.”

Maglor went outside and unbuckled the horse’s saddle. It took him a couple of tries, but he eventually managed to carry it into the hobbit-hole. “I figure I’ll be here for a while,” he explained. “No sense in leaving it on.”

“It looks that way,” Bilbo agreed. “So, where were we? You are Fëanor’s son?”

“Yes. Oh, and Elrond is mine.”

“Elrond is-- _WHAT?_ ”

“You didn’t know?”

“ _NO_ , I didn’t know! _What!”_ Bilbo stared around, laughing incredulously. “ _How?”_

“It’s more complicated than that, and he’ll tell the story better than I could. But yes, that’s why he keeps me around.”

“Incredible. But if that’s the case, why aren’t you the master of Rivendell? Or at least, why aren’t you held in more esteem?”

“Well, because of the whole--what did you call it--kinslaying thing.”

“Right,” said Bilbo. “And I suppose enough on that for now. You’re a poet. Do you want to see something I’ve been working on? It’s the tale of the quest I went on.”

“Yeah. Love to.” Maglor gulped some more ale.

Bilbo fished around in a stack of papers. “Here.”

Maglor read it twice while Bilbo refilled their mugs, then looked up. “It’s good, I think. What are these, spondees?”

“Yeah. Yes. I thought I’d challenge myself.”

“Well, it looks good to me. ‘Dragon’ and ‘flagon,’” he laughed, “that’s inspired.”

“Look at the bottom!” Bilbo cried. “‘Thorin’ and ‘abhorrent.’” He didn’t quite know why it was so funny, but he found himself in gales of laughter nonetheless.

Maglor, too, seemed to find this hilarious. It didn’t even quite rhyme.

They passed the rest of the evening like this, exchanging poetry and teaching each other their favorite drinking songs. Bilbo grew drowsy, and shortly afterward fell sound asleep on the table.

When he awoke, Maglor was gone. He’d left a kettle of hot water, a half-drained cup of tea, and a note in scrawled handwriting: _After what you drank last night, I didn’t want to wake you. I smell orcs on the wind, and something still feels peculiar. I’ll see you again sometime. Thanks for the tea._

The kettle was still hot, although the ink on the note was long since dried. Bilbo poured himself a cup and settled down at the table, rubbing his temples against the headache. He knew he’d written some new poems last night, but he couldn’t quite remember what they said, so he picked up the paper on top and started reading.


End file.
